“Nelson’s a damn liar!”
“He says the plan was he’d take out Jack Jordan — steal the diamond and you’d steal the Civil War contract. Nelson only had to murder one man. You killed two. Where’s the diamond and the contract?” O’Brien stepped closer, staring directly into Jackson eyes, which were black as the water at the base of the giant cypress trees.
Jackson tightened his neck muscles as the deer fly bit into his skin. “I answer to nobody. I knock tyranny on its ass. Whatever it takes. Who the fuck are you?”
“That’s not important. What is important — it’s the decisions you make, Silas, because those decisions have a real bad effect on others. I’m betting you have the diamond and the contract hidden with the painting you stole from the film set.”
“What painting?”
“The one you are infatuated with, the one of the woman painted at the time of the Civil War. You told others you believed the woman in the painting would be reincarnated. And you believe she’s now Kim Davis. You left the Confederate roses on her property.”
Jackson said nothing. Staring, eyes fiery.
“Don’t go near her again.”
“You got a claim on that woman? I doubt it. I’ll ask her sometime.”
“That’d be a bad mistake.”
“Maybe I’m a bad man.” He slapped the deer fly on his neck, crushing it in the palm of his hand, without taking his eyes off of O’Brien. Then he looked down, opening his right hand. Black dirt packed under the long fingernails, bruised and damaged cuticles at the nail base. O’Brien stared at a deer fly wing wedged under Jackson’s fingernail on his index finger.
Jackson licked his thin lips and said, “This here fly is a female. Only the female deer fly drinks blood. The male visits flowers, spreading pollen. The female uses a razor-sharp mouth and jaws to cross-slice the skin, sort of makes a tiny X. When the blood rises to the surface, she puts her face in and drinks her fill. You ever drink blood — the elixir of life? The alchemy between a man and a woman is the continuation of the bloodline. The true scent of a woman, her blood, is the same thing the male deer fly is programmed to do when he enters a flower. Think about that, whoever the fuck you are. You visiting Kim Davis’ flower?” Jackson grinned. “I’m next. I see you don’t rile up too easy. That’ll change soon.”
O’Brien said nothing, waiting for the move.
Jackson sneered. “I don’t like your face. Don’t like your eyes. They’re corrosive like you got acid boiling under your irises. What’s behind those eyes — the face of yours, huh? Before I’m done with you, we’ll carve a big ol’ X between your shoulder blades. Just like the deer fly. We’ll tie you up under a sycamore tree, in front of a mirror me and the boys will hang from a limb. We’ll cut you right around the hairline and then peel the skin off your face. It’s just like skinnin’ a catfish. I need to see what’s behind your lying face.” He used his left hand to lift the dead insect, slowly stretching his left arm. O’Brien cut his eyes up to Jackson, waiting for the split second hint. He didn’t wait long.
Just as Jackson dropped the deer fly to the mud, he used his right hand to reach under his jacket. In that second, O’Brien pulled his Glock, taking one long stride. The barrel pointing straight between Jackson eyes. “Give me another reason!”
Jackson stared at the barrel. No fear. Eyes cool, detached.
O’Brien said, “Use your left hand…very slowly reach under your jacket and lift out whatever you’re packing. Then drop it next to your blood-sucking deer fly and take three steps backward.”
Jackson did as ordered, the .38 dropping in the mud. He looked at O’Brien and said, “You got the wrong man, peckerwood. I didn’t kill that college teacher or the clerk. I came damn close to killing Jack Jordan on account of our heated disagreements about the war and that documentary he was makin,’ but I didn’t do it. Somebody else did. And I’m glad they shot the bastard.”
“Where’s the painting?”
“Don’t know.”
“Did you sell it with the diamond and contract?”
“If I had that contract, I’d burn the mother fucker.”
O’Brien heard the rumble of a diesel engine. He looked over Jackson’s shoulder to see a black pickup truck coming down the road, mud flying in the air from the back tires. It was the same truck that met Jackson at the jail complex. Same men in it right down to the tattoo and fur on one beefy arm protruding from the open driver’s side window.
Jackson slowly turned his head, watching the truck approach. As he started to turn back toward O’Brien, he grinned and said, “Don’t know if you believe in providence having any bearing on man’s survival in the cosmos, but your luck just ran out. Whatcha gonna do now, peckerwood?”
SIXTY-SIX
O’Brien watched the pickup truck, now about one hundred yards away. He didn’t know if the men in the truck spotted him and Jackson behind the parked Jeep. He quickly lifted the pistol out of the mud and threw it far into the underbrush. He grabbed Jackson by the back of the collar and pushed the muzzle of the Glock against his throat. “Like I said earlier, give me a reason.” He shoved Jackson to the creek, sloshing through ankle-deep water, guiding him behind a clump of cypress trees. “You make a sound and the raccoons will have your scrambled brains for breakfast.”
Jackson grinned. “All I’m gonna say is you’re a dead man. You just don’t know it.”
O’Brien kept the Glock buried next to Jackson’s carotid artery. Within seconds, the black pickup pulled around the Jeep, stopped next to the creek. The men got out. Both armed. One man with a sawed-off 12-gauge shotgun. The other holding a .44 magnum. They walked around the Jeep, cautiously opening both doors. The taller man looked down at the shoe and boot prints in the mud, mumbled something to his friend and started walking toward the creek.
O’Brien pulled Jackson out of the creek, pushing him along the embankment toward Jackson’s truck. When they got next to the truck, O’Brien said, “What size hat is that on your head?”
“What?”
“Hat size. Maybe seven and three-quarters. Give me your hat.”
“You’ll have to take it.”
“Okay.” O’Brien hit Jackson in his lower left jaw, the blow sounding like a carrot snapped in half. Jackson’s hat flew off his head, landing in the truck-bed. His eyes rolled, and he fell backwards. O’Brien quietly lowered the tailgate while holding Jackson in one arm. He rolled Jackson onto the truck-bed, found the keys in his jacket, picked up the Confederate slouch hat, and started the truck, heading back toward the men.
O’Brien sat behind the steering wheel, slouch hat pulled just over his eyebrows. He drove down the creek-bed knowing that in the molted soft light reflecting from the dark, tinted truck windows, it would be difficult for Jackson’s men to get a good look at who was driving. He spotted them standing on the creek bank, necks craned, confused faces.
Both men had their guns lowered, and the one with the pistol had holstered it. The taller of the two sported a full reddish beard. The shorter man, wearing a white tank top and shorts, had the body of a gym rat, steroid — sculpted muscles showing on tattooed, woolly arms. The man scratched his crotch and spat in the flowing water just when O’Brien pulled up and stopped.
As the truck window lowered, the men looked up into the barrel of the Glock. “Throw your guns in the creek!” O’Brien shouted. “Now!” Both men were dumbfounded. They tossed their weapons into the water. O’Brien slid out of the truck and said, “Now, since it’s a beautiful day for a hike, I want you lads to start walking. Wade through the stream. Don’t bother to stop to pick up your guns. They’ll need a thorough drying out and oiling. So let the waters bath them while you go pick blackberries down the muddy road.”